Wild Ones
by bethaboo
Summary: The Girl on Fire and her Loverboy capture the Capitol's attention but in the dark, hidden corners of the arena, in the places where Katniss' fire cannot reach, Cato & Clove learn to burn each other and in the process destroy everything around them. M AU
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I know I promised Downton Abbey fic. It's coming, I promise. But I have been completely laid bare by the realization that Katniss and Peeta weren't the only pair of would-be lovers in the arena. Whatever the connection that Suzanne Collins intended for Cato and Clove, there are enough tantalizing hints for me to take the idea and run with it.**

**The very best part about not writing "good" characters? They are free to do all sorts of nasty things to each other. Yes, I am talking about sex. That means if you are under 18, I would not recommend reading further, this is going to be a hard M story.  
**

* * *

Cato knows what she is capable of before he ever sees her face.

The different ages aren't encouraged to mingle at the training school, but the day Clove shoves a knife into the thigh of one of her sparring partners, whispered gossip spreads like wildfire. There is talk she will be sent away, but Cato knows better. After all, they're trained to be bloodthirsty monsters; she has just proved with one casual flick of her wrist that she is better at it than nearly anybody else. So he isn't surprised much when the next day, she's been moved into his training group.

From the beginning, it's clear that she's being trained in earnest to enter the Games at the peak of her deadliness, but he thinks the trainers must be insane if they believe they can keep her contained until she turns eighteen.

At twelve, she is lean and lithe and tiny, but the rage burning in her eyes belies her small stature. He takes her seriously, and as what he says goes, the rest in their group follows suit.

He keeps a casual eye on Clove as two years go by. He watches as they sharpen her already-deadly skills and whittle her viciousness to a keen point. By the time she turns fourteen, they are the best two fighters in their age group—the best two fighters in the entire training school, and therefore probably the best two fighters in all twelve districts.

So it should come to no surprise to him that eventually he reads the training board and sees his name linked with hers.

"Better watch your back," his best friend Roman mutters as he glances over the newly-paired names. "She's unpredictable. Insane."

Cato disagrees. He sees the stunt two years ago for what it was—a bid to gain the trainers attention. And it worked, because instead of languishing in her age group, she's been accelerated and is taken very, very seriously.

The first afternoon he faces her, her hair is braided tightly back from her face. The light falling in from the skylights carves across her cheekbones, and for the very first time, Cato doesn't feel the immediate and overwhelming need to conquer, to dominate. Whatever he feels, it isn't normal-and so he ignores it, or at least he tries to.

They circle each other slowly, each clearly respectful of the other's skills. Cato knows it is to his detriment that he is better at short range weaponry and that Clove specializes in long-range—her deadly knives specifically. She can hit a target spot-on at a hundred paces. The heavy wood of his sword thunks as he switches it from one hand to another, as effortlessly as breathing. Her eyes narrow at his overt display of strength and he can't help but smirk a little. Nobody else in the training school has been capable of pushing her buttons, but give him five minutes, and she's putty in his hands.

Cato vaguely hears the frustrated grunt of Enobaria and he knows she is sick of waiting for the first strike, so he half-heartedly stabs forward with his weapon, which she evades nimbly, spinning out of his reach, and then back into it, her short wooden knives moving in an intricate dance. He parries her next strikes but finds himself sweating nervously as her movements grow more and more inventive. "Unpredictable," Roman called her. Cato can think of another word: a serious pain in his ass.

He keeps her occupied in the short range, knowing if she manages to get away from him for even a moment, she will throw one of those knives and though he'll only have a bruise from their impact, his pride won't ever let him live down being beaten by this nutcase.

He's so caught up in the moment of her twisting, fiendish slashing that he forgets for a moment everything else, and the world shrinks. It is only her weapons and his and the steely determination in those gray-green eyes. He has heard for years of Clove's skills, but today, for the very first time, Cato thinks that all of District 2 has underestimated her deadliness.

_He _has underestimated her deadliness. With a feline grace, she snaps away from the range of his sword, and a second later, Cato feels the sharp thump of a wooden dagger hitting the side of his neck.

His sword falls to his side, his arm burning from the wild goose chase she'd just let him on, but she doesn't smile, even in victory. So serious, she is, with a deadly earnest that he finds fascinating.

"Carotid artery," Enobaria announces. "You're dead, Cato."

Those aren't words he's heard pronounced in years. As Enobaria lifts Clove's arm in victory, Cato wonders if maybe they moved her to give him a little bit of a challenge. He knows he should feel a lot more humiliated than he is; instead, he just feels a strange pulse of happiness. As the fellow Careers gather around to congratulate her, everyone avoiding his gaze, she glances over at him and for the very first time, she looks _at _him. Not at his sword, not at his slashing arm, or his feet, but at _him_.

He can hear her, just as clearly as if she was speaking out loud. _You are mine. I am yours._

* * *

The next time they fight, the crowd is even larger. Cato knows his father is here, and he sees Clove's mother, a past Victor, speaking seriously to her daughter, her hands resting on Clove's shoulders. She glances up at him again, still wordless. Even though they have been in the same class for two years, she has never said an unnecessary word to him. Nothing overt or even remotely friendly. Only that hot, steely look of two months ago—_You are mine, as I am yours._

It unnerves him still, as if she can see deep into the soul he tries to forget he owns, and can read every secret he stows there. At the very least, she must know that they are perfectly matched—two deadly weapons forged to be Victors.

Clove's chin lifts, and they step into the ring. This time, as the world shrinks to the two of them and their clashing weapons, he maintains the focus that has made him the Career to beat him in his class and across all twelve districts. Against his single-minded determination, this time it is Clove who falters. In fact, it is his strength that gets her in the end, as he bears down with his sword against her paltry wooden dagger. She struggles mightily, and he can taste her breath on the air, as she pants for control, her eyes hardening with the pain of keeping his sword away from her vulnerable throat. Finally, the wood cracks under his strength and in a second, his sword is against her skin.

This time, as he claims victory, she won't meet his eyes. _Show me_, he wants to plead with her, even though he is not exactly the pleading kind, _show me you understand. You are mine, and I am yours._

But she turns from him, turns and heads into the bowels of the training center, no doubt to find some empty room where she can let her fury at being overcome loose.

* * *

He is right. He finds her in a training room, with a shining blade in her fist.

The dummy in front of her has been carved to bits with her knife, and for a heartbeat, he is afraid. Roman was right; she _is _insane, but it's the kind of insanity that he understands.

To get her to turn around, to face him, to look at him in the eye, he says the one thing he never expected to say. "I'm sorry."

"Go away." Her back is still to him, as she assesses the dummy and where next to cut.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I shouldn't have used my strength. It was cheating."

"Don't," she spits out, as he wanders closer to her. Anyone sane would think he had a death wish, especially after getting a load out of that desecrated dummy.

"You don't scare me, Clove."

She whips around now, her braid swooshing through the air, and the knife in her hand is a second away from being thrown with deadly accuracy in his direction. "I should."

"Yes, you should. But we both know that isn't true."

Her eyes raise to him, and this time he has the leisure to study them. They're grayish-green, the light changing their tone as she takes a step closer.

"The others. . .they _pretend_, they _tolerate_," Clove says bitterly. "But I don't. I want it. And so do you."

_You are mine. I am yours._

"And you'll have it," he says.

"I want to volunteer," she admits. "I feel like I might explode, some days."

He knew the trainers would have trouble containing her until the age of eighteen, when they would unleash her fury upon the other eleven districts. "You know you can't," he tells her slowly, and the gentleness in his tone surprises even him. There is no gentleness in him. It has been beat, and trained and sweat out of him long ago. But for her. . .he is not certain why she intrigues and torments him so.

She shakes her head a little, the braid quivering with her movement. "Then take it out on me," he offers. "I need the challenge, before I volunteer."

It is unspoken between them that even though she should not volunteer next year, he will, because it is his last chance to become the Victor he was raised to be.

"Okay," she says with just the hint of a smile curving her upper lip. "Let's start." Her arm flashes out with the shining knife, and he jumps back, startled.

"No wooden weapons. Those are stupid," Clove demands. "I want my knives."

"If you get your knives, I get my sword."

This time her smile is the sun, and for a moment, he is struck by how suddenly beautiful she is. Her skill only serves to add another facet to her beauty and before he can stop himself, he imagines slowly peeling the training suit off her shapely limbs and absorbing the full effect of Clove.

But she slashes out with the knife again, and his head clears just in time to move out of the way.

"I'm waiting," she says, clearly annoyed at the delay. "Go get your sword."

"You know we can't tell anyone. We're only supposed to spar with wooden weapons. And in front of a trainer."

Clove shrugs, as if this is the most minor of obstacles. He remembers belatedly that she jumped two years to join his class, and if she wants something, she gets it.

"We'll start tomorrow. I can't go upstairs and grab my sword without everyone realizing what I'm doing."

"Fine." She's pouting, and damn if he doesn't find that insanely attractive. Cato wonders if he's sick for thinking that—after all, she's only fourteen. He glances at her again, and decides he's not. Those are womanly curves on her, after all, and he remembers that look again. _You are mine. I am yours._

* * *

They spar almost every day in secret, with real weapons. Cato becomes intimately familiar with all the ways she can hurt him with those damn knives, and she feels the sting of his sword more than once. He steals a first aid kit and stows it down in one of the farthest, least used training rooms. They become adept at treating each other, but as days turn into weeks, and weeks into months, Cato finds his hands nearly shaking as he smooths ointment onto her warm, creamy skin. Sometimes he wonders if she feels his trembling fingers, if she can sense his confused longing. He wants to decimate her and strip her naked all in the same moment, yet she acts as if he is nothing, not even a hot-blooded male.

"Almost done," Cato breathes out unsteadily as he taps down the white bandage onto her upper back. He sees two other scars that he made on her otherwise flawless skin, and gluttonously wants to trace their path, to revel in the fact that he and he alone has marked her.

"Good," she grumbles. "You're taking forever."

So she has not guessed that he elongates their treatment sessions merely to continue to put his hands on her. She is either unbearably naïve or not interested. Cato suspects the former has not been true in years, but he can't settle for the latter. He wants her until his blood burns with it. It isn't fair that she doesn't feel the same.

"I won this time," he says, hating the hesitant edge to his voice. "I want to claim a boon."

"A boon?" Clove asks crossly as she pulls her training tunic down over the bandage. "What's that?"

He wants to pull back at her annoyed voice, but the determined edge of those eyes doom him. He can't retreat now, even though his next actions might lose him the best training partner he has ever had.

"A boon. A prize. Because I won."

"It's not like you win all the time," she grumbles, and he realizes that he's pricked her insufferable pride with his talk of winning.

"Of course, you can claim yours whenever you win. It will just add an extra . . ._edge _to our bouts," he quickly inserts. "What do you think?"

She looks rather skeptical. "You don't think I'm challenging enough on my own?"

"You are."

"Fine." Cloves sighs, clearly peeved with the entire exercise. "What do you want?"

Before he says it, he's pretty much certain that she will laugh in his face. After all, he is the great Cato—destroyer of District 2 and the almost-certain Victor of next year's Hunger Games. He is supposed to be above petty, emotional concerns.

"A kiss."

Her faces closes, and she says nothing. He takes an experimental step forward. "You have to know. . ." he clears his throat, aware that his voice has suddenly become embarrassingly gravely. "You have to know how I feel, Clove."

"We don't _feel_, Cato," she sneers at him. "Feelings get you killed."

For a split second, he believes her derision, then he glances down and sees that her fingers are clenched tightly together, just as his are. She is trembling.

His exultation at defeating any of his sparring partners at training is nothing compared to what he feels when he realizes that she is just as vulnerable to him as he is to her. To nobody else, but each other. He takes a step forward, and her knuckles grow white with the need to control herself. "You're right," he admits quietly, as he comes face to face with her, "but when I go into the arena, I don't want to win just because I can. I want to win because I know you'll be waiting for me."

Cato can see the pulse in her neck and he tangles a hand in the hair around the base of Clove's braid. "Fuck," he finally growls when she still says nothing, wide eyes focused on his, "you started it all anyway. With that look you gave me after the first fight."

"I was stupid," she whispers. "Cocky."

"And now?" he challenges, yanking just a touch too hard on her braid, wrapping the dark strands around his fingers until they are completely enveloped. Her hair, he thinks, is the only soft thing about her.

She begins to melt against him, around him, and for the briefest of seconds, he almost realizes what kind of havoc she could wreak on him, but before she can move any closer to him-that last devastating centimeter-her eyes grow cold and flat and she pulls herself away, yanking his hand away from her head, quite a few hairs coming along with it.

"We can't do this," she grinds out, her voice metallic and far away in his ears. Cato's blood is pumping, thumping in his body, he can feel it beating a tattoo out in his cock. He has never wanted anything in his life as badly as he wants Clove's surrender. But he can tell from the expression on her face that she had made up her mind, and unless he wants to force her to change it, then the best he will ever get from her is fighting and a few precious moments when she allows him to mend her.

* * *

The next day he is surprised, but not surprised to see that a new set of sparring partners has been posted. He's paired with some stupid blond girl who can barely pick up her axe to heave it at him. As for Clove, his place at her side has been filled by Roman, who is embarrassing all of District 2 by looking terrified.

He doesn't ask why the change was made-he already knows that whatever Clove wants, she gets.

Even though he knows she won't come to the training room for their secret sparring, he goes anyway, if only to torture himself. There's a forgotten, blood-stained tunic in the corner, next to the first aid kit, and he picks it up. It's one of hers, of course. She is dedicated, deadly and probably insane. But she is also careless with things-she throws them away haphazardly to get what she wants, and he knows it's because of this streak in her that the trainers want her to wait a few more years to volunteer.

He, on the other hand, is deadly but deliberate, because he was forcibly trained that way. The one exception to his carefully thought out plans is Clove, but then she is the kind of woman who would decimate a man if given half a chance.

Cato tells himself that he should consider himself lucky that he managed to avoid her particular brand of destruction but he can't quite make himself believe it.

As the months pass, his training accelerates until Cato feels like he might be breathing, eating and sleeping parries and thrusts. Enobaria brings in a woman to teach him how to forage-the Hunger Games aren't named ironically, after all-but he discovers he is hopeless at identifying which plants he can eat, and which he can't. Finally, he gives up and tells Enobaria that he'll fight for his food. She nods her head, but he knows she suspects that his increasing temper stems from something else. She just doesn't know what.

If he is lucky, she will never know. Cato never looks in Clove's direction now. He has given her what she wanted, and if sometimes he can sense her eyes on him from across the training floor, he rigidly forces himself not to look back. _Her decision_, he tells himself.

The blond he's been paired with is named Gaia, and she is easy and friendly and doesn't try to stab him in the leg whenever he snaps at her. He tries to help her, and as the months go by, she improves enough that it is wordlessly acknowledged she will accompany him into the arena this year as a volunteer. She's attractive and sweet and will help with sponsors until the moment he has to kill her.

Cato knows he will have to, and as he lies in bed at night and the day of the Reaping grows closer, he finds it does not bother him in the least. He will kill Gaia without even a second of hesitation.

Sometimes, he sometimes lets himself think of Clove. Of her long hair, soft and pliant around his hand, of her steely, speculative gaze under the fringe of her dark lashes. As hard as he tries, Cato can't reconcile the hot look of their first sparring match with the absolute certainty in her eyes when she pushed him away. He decides she is just young, maybe confused. When he returns to District 2 a Victor, rich and admired and powerful, she won't be able to deny him.

He knows she too, will eventually take her time in the arena, and when she emerges Victor, then there will be nothing stopping them from coming together. She'll see, he thinks confidently, that they are made for each other.

_You are mine. I am yours_.

* * *

Reaping Day dawns cold and clear, the sun shining mercilessly against the frost. He feels steady and sure, and everything goes according to plan. Some useless little boy is selected by Mason Frewell, District 2's escort, and as expected he raises his hand, his voice booming throughout the courtyard.

"I volunteer!"

He's showered with applause as he strides forward to the stage. He stands tall and confident next to Mason, knowing that the other tributes will be watching this later, and that a good portion of his strategy relies on them being afraid of him up front. He wants desperately to look for Clove in the group of girls to the left, to reassure her, to promise her that he will come back to her-come back _for _her. But to make googly eyes at a girl would be unbecoming to a District 2 tribute and future Victor, so he forces his eyes to the very back of the courtyard.

Mason dips his hand into the other glass jar, and he has barely read the name, before there is a screech that stops his heart. The same heart that he has tried to pretend for three years doesn't exist.

Today, he knows it's right there, lodged in his chest, and it's beating. And it's beating pretty much solely for her.

"I volunteer," she screams, launching herself out of the crowd of silent girls. She looks so tiny and unimportant that there is a cascade of whispers. It is rare that a volunteer in a Career district isn't 17 or 18. The other girl Careers look Clove up and down, and he is not at all surprised when Gaia shrinks under Clove's deadly glare. She will not try to contest Clove for the ability to volunteer. She knows Clove would kill her in five seconds.

After all, whatever Clove wants, Clove gets.

As she makes her way to the stage, beaming, the world slows to a crawl around him. Suddenly he realizes why she pulled away all those months ago. She knew this was his year to volunteer-his last chance to be the Victor he was born to be. And she . . ._she_. . .he cannot even form the words in his own head.

She is here to kill him.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank you for all your lovely reviews! I pretty much have zero expectations because I don't typically write for the Hunger Games fandom, but everyone has been very welcoming. Again, I will warn that this story is rated M for sexual scenes and language.**

* * *

The rest of the Reaping ceremony passes in a painful blur. He can't even comprehend what awaits him in the arena, but suddenly Cato is painfully sure that he'll never see District 2 again. He shakes hands with his father, holds his mother, goes through all the reassuring motions, but he knows he is never coming back. He cannot come back, because he cannot kill Clove.

Maybe he could fight her, maybe even hold a blade to her throat, not unlike he did the second time they sparred, but he will never be able to finish her. She was the smart one, he realizes as the train pulls away from the station and he finds himself face to face with her in the narrow hallway, she kept her emotions in check, and now she will be able to do what needs to be done.

"Clove," he says, voice raw.. He's sure she has never heard him like this before, but there is no sympathy in her eyes.

All he can think is _she volunteered. _She volunteered, knowing full well that winning would probably mean killing him herself. She of all people knows intimately what he is capable of, and she will not want to risk keeping him around until the end. He finally realizes the fact that he has denied for so long-she is a heartless bitch, shameless and calculating. She probably wove her spell around him on purpose, knowing he would fall for her, and would never be able to kill her.

"Cato." Her voice, unlike his, is measured and calm. "Congratulations."

He wants to smash her head against the wood-panelled wall. Wants to do it again, and again, until she cries out and says she is sorry, that she didn't mean it after all. But that would be a useless exercise, because she'll never admit it. They have both made their beds, now there is nothing to do but lie in them.

Enobaria opens the door to the dining compartment, and beckons them inside. She gives him a hard look as he passes by her, and he thinks that maybe she's guessed. That maybe she's known for longer than he cares to think about.

Brutus is there too, reclining on a chair, and Mason is propped up by a green velvet sofa. He and Clove are less impressed by their surroundings than most tributes are-after all, her mother was a Victor and his father is the Head Peacekeeper for District 2. They've never wanted for anything. Still, he should go through the motions. Desperately, he tries to think of something to say, something nice, something _polite_, but unfortunately all his words are tied up in rage. At himself. At Clove. At the whole fucking thing. Not once in his eighteen years has he ever raged at the unfairness of the Hunger Games. Instead, he saw them as a way to lift himself up, to distinguish himself from every other ambitious boy in his District. Now he sees them for what they are, and he is sick.

"Sit," Mason says, smiling at the pair of them. No doubt he's thrilled to have two tributes of such renown in the district. He is probably already counting all the favors he will get to pull in as their escort. "Let's have some dinner."

His entire life has changed, Cato thinks, and Mason wants him to sit down and eat like a normal human being. And next to the girl who has done all the changing. His stomach twists at the possibility, but he doesn't want her to know how horribly affected he is by her decision, and so he sits.

They talk strategy over dinner. Of course, he will be stuck in a pack with her. Districts 1 and 2 nearly always form a pack and District 4, depending on the size and skill level of the tributes, is usually invited.

As the meal unfolds, Cato discovers one terrible revelation after another. He will be forced to be friendly and casual with her, as if nothing is wrong. As if his entire body isn't rebelling at the thought of her impaled on his sword. He will have to pretend as if all those sweaty, bloody afternoons in the abandoned training room didn't happen. He'll have to look into her eyes as she kills him.

By the end of the meal, Cato is only keeping his temper in check by sheer strength of will and pride. He will not let her see him crack.

He bids everyone goodnight, and if he does not look directly at her, it's not such a horrible breach of etiquette. After all, it's an awkward situation, mostly smoothed over with polite smiles and false words. In the end, one of them has to die.

In the end, he knows it will be him.

* * *

He wakes in the dark, and instantly knows he is not alone. He can hear her gasping breaths in the corner of his room. She has come to him for what reason he doesn't know, but he is instantly suspicious. Is she here to kill him early? Has she finally lost what was left of her mind?

"Why are you here?" he asks flatly. If Clove thinks she's going to get more love-addled begging, then she's gravely mistaken. He's done with that.

She is silent, except for those horrible gasping breaths that he's sure she is trying to smother.

"Clove," he grinds out. "What the fuck is going on?"

When she still doesn't answer, he shucks the covers back, and strides to the corner, flipping the light switch as he grabs her by her ever-present braid.

She is shaking, and so white that he fears for her. The gasps are more like sobs, he realizes, except her cheeks are dry. She's crying, but not crying. How like Clove.

"I don't know what you want me to tell you," he explodes, letting her hear the disgust in his voice. "You did this. You _planned _this."

He nearly drops her like a hot coal, but she grabs onto him, her fingers turning to claw-like clamps around his arms. "Don't," she finally whispers. "Just. . ._don't_."

"You knew I would hate you. And you did it anyway." That is the crux of the issue for him. She knew the entire time-he is the one who was unpleasantly surprised by her sudden need to volunteer.

"You shouldn't even be here," he continues in a hiss, "you aren't even ready."

Her eyes flash at that, and he can tell she is mentally carving him up. He supposes after he spent the last few hours bashing her head in, it's her turn to fantasize about evisceration.

Finally, she takes a deep breath and lets go, sagging to the floor. He doesn't pull her up again, but crouches next to her, resting on his haunches. He doesn't touch her. He _can't _touch her.

She finally begins to explain. "It was my mother. She decided that she didn't want to wait. She thought this year was going to be a weak year for females in District 2 and that I'd have a better shot at volunteering."

He doesn't interject that it wouldn't have mattered which year she volunteered, that pretty much every girl who'd seen her train would have let her go without a fight.

"She made me . . .promise." The words are distasteful to her, he can sense it, and he almost asks what it was that made her agree in the end, but he doesn't. After all, it doesn't matter now. They are both here. There is no going back.

"I thought I could do it," she continues quietly, "but then I saw your face."

He'd hoped that hearing an explanation out of her own lips would somehow alter his rage. It doesn't.

"God damn it, Clove, why didn't you tell me? I could have talked to her-told her to talk to the trainers. Done something. _Anything_." He doesn't tell her that if she'd confided in him about her predicament, he wouldn't have volunteered. He would have let his chance at glory pass him by, and he would have waited for her to come back to him with the gold Victor's crown resting on her dark head.

She says nothing in response, and her breathing hiccups again. Restlessly he rises and begins to pace across the small room. "I don't know why you're still here," he says cruelly as he turns her direction. "You've explained." He knows he's being unfair to her, but he can't help the surfacing rage.

A strangled sob erupts out of her throat. "I wanted to know if you meant what you said."

"What?" he demands. He knows that he is probably pushing her closer to the edge, but damn it, she pushed him there first.

"You told me that I knew how you felt," she whispers. "But I don't. I don't even understand how I feel."

He can't tell her. Not now. Not when he can practically feel her knife in his back and the blood dripping down his skin. Not when he closes his eyes and can only see her triumphant gaze as she is carried away to the Victor's parade and he is carried only to his death.

So he shows her. He is across the room, eating up the floor in one, two long strides, It's her braid he grabs her by, and she doesn't make a sound as he yanks her to her feet, pulls her flush against him. And when he presses his lips onto hers, he is not gentle or sweet or anything he imagined he would be when he kissed her for the first time. And he has imagined it, or had imagined it, before she trod all over his fucking simple request for a simple fucking kiss. It isn't necessarily romantic or loving, but there is a dark, searing pleasure in the way she responds to him, opens up to him as if he is the magic key to her own idiosyncratic lock. As if she has been waiting for him and him alone to taste her and touch her. He isn't careful, and lets his hands roam and feel every inch of her the way he has dreamt until they settle on her ass, lifting her to him, pulling her against him, until she can feel just how aroused he is by her.

And since this is Clove, and nothing scares her on the face of this earth, she hums with self-satisfaction as she finds just the right way to rub against him, pleasuring them both. It's only when she wraps her strong, lean legs around him, and he pushes her up against the wall, bracing a hand against the wood panelling, desperate to get closer to her, that he knows he is in serious trouble. He knows it when he tries to pull away but she is right there, grasping his head, pulling him to her, mauling his mouth with hers, nearly eating him alive. He's always known that Clove approached everything with an insanely single-minded focus. It's one of the reasons why she is so deadly. It now appears that she is learning him the way she learned her knives, and he can't be one of her weapons. Suddenly, he jerks out of her arms and she drops again to the floor. But instead of complaining, she merely crouches there, at his feet, awaiting him. Knowing he will return to her. The magnetic pull is too strong.

"That was . . ." He has no words. Words have never been his strongest suit, but she has just stolen every single one of them from his head. Along with his breath.

"Stupid," she whispers, and he glances down to see her fingers exploring her swollen lips, the slightly reddish patch on her neck. He mauled both with his mouth. He licks his own lips and can still taste the lemony sweet flavor that is Clove. He wants more, even if she will be the death of him. He decides it would be the sweetest agony he's ever experienced to die at her hand.

He wants her, beyond caring, beyond death.

"Stupid," she repeats. "But wonderful. I was smart not to let you before, but now. . ."

"Now it's too late," he says shortly, reality crashing down again. "Too fucking late."

"Yes," she says slowly, and he can nearly see the cogs in that devious mind of hers working overtime.

He slides to the floor beside her, even though that particular location is more dangerous right now than arena will be in a few days.

"Does that answer your question?" he asks with resignation.

She nods. "I had hoped it would be that. I wanted to experience. . ._that _with you before. . .before. . ." In a very un-Clovelike development, she can't finish her sentence.

"Before I die," he says flatly. He has come within about thirty seconds of fucking her against the wall. They might as well be honest with each other.

"Actually, I was going to say before we _both _die," she says, but she's never been a good liar. He can see right through her.

He sighs. "You know I can't kill you, Clove."

She is up like a shot on her knees, hands clasped together as she eyes him so seriously. She is _begging _him. "You have to, Cato. You _have _to."

He is speechless again. Not that it's all that hard to accomplish, but she has managed it twice in half an hour. This might be a new record.

"And you have to make it beautiful. So beautiful," she adds mournfully. "I don't want to die ugly."

"Oh god, Clove," his voice cracks as he pulls her towards him, wrapping his arms around her as tightly as they will go.

"It's my fault, all of it," she says, her voice muffled in his shirt and if he could cry, he would.

That's their problem, he decides. Neither of them can muster up a single decent tear, even under a certain death sentence. That one fact alone either means they're completely fucked up, or that they deserve only each other.

"You should go back to your room," Cato finally says. "You'll need your sleep."

"I can't sleep," she says, and her voice is like a wound in his side.

"They'll come looking for you," he tries again, but they both know that she doesn't want to go, and he doesn't want to force her.

For a long time, she is silent, completely motionless on his lap, and he realizes despite her protests that she's fallen asleep. Carefully he rises to his feet and carries her to the bed. He's torn between wanting the intimacy that sleeping in the same bed might bring and knowing that if Enobaria discovers her here in the morning, there will be hell to pay.

At the very least, his secret won't be very secret anymore, and the very last thing he wants to do is give Enobaria that kind of power over him. Who knows, she and Brutus might make him use what he feels in the circus of the Games, turning him into some kind of sick, pathetic punchline.

He sits down on the bed next to Clove, and the one thing he's sure of is that nobody else should know. The complex ways they're tied together aren't for the Capitol's entertainment. First off, those simpletons could never understand, and second, he wouldn't know how to verbalize it and he'd come off looking like some sort of lovelorn idiot while Clove occupied the high ground, laughing at him all the while.

Just the thought of his singed pride is enough for him to temporarily suspend any tenderness he feels and nudge her. "Clove," he hisses, "you need to wake up. And go back to your own room."

She wakes up with a vicious sneer. Cato decides that some things will never change, and that attitude of hers is one of them.

"I hope there was a good reason you decided to wake me up," she huffs, clearly annoyed with him. "I was just getting comfortable."

"Not here, you're not."

"Whatever," she shrugs, and he's momentarily taken aback by how she can go from the frantic desolation of an hour ago to acting as if he occupies some sort of unimportant periphery in her life.

Part of him wants to take it all back and beg her to stay with him, but he still has his pride to consider and the idea of the Capitol idiots laughing at his antics over their morning coffee shuts him up. If he has to be displayed for public consumption, he'll do it on his terms. Not theirs.

She closes the door behind her without saying a word, even goodnight, and Cato lays back in the bed,trying not to think of how warm the spot she laid in is. Instead he focuses on all the ways he'd like to break her, make her confess that she is as affected by him as he is by her.

He could make Clove talk, he thinks smugly to himself, just think of how he rocked her world with that kiss. His fantasies of her, usually a little twisted, grow darker as he imagines wrapping her braid around his fist and forcing her to her knees. She'd hate that, he thinks with satisfaction, she'd never settle for being subservient. But then he remembers how eagerly she rubbed her body against his, the wild abandon she displayed with zero thought to sanity, and the electric sizzle along his spine as she'd held his head and owned his mouth with her own-he remembers and he realizes that if anybody has the upper hand here, it's her. He might be bigger than her, stronger than her, maybe even more skilled than her, but in the end, she's got the power to bring him to knees with lust.

It's useless to wish he could see into her ridiculously complex skull and know why the fuck she can turn him away as easily as breathing, but he wishes it anyway. He's still wishing as his eyes finally close and he settles into the warmth that she's left behind.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning at breakfast, Clove won't look at him. At first Cato wonders if she is embarrassed of her uninhibited behavior from the night before, but then he remembers this is Clove and embarrassment doesn't exist to her.

He's pouring another glass of orange juice when the truth dawns on him and he wants to smack himself for being so ridiculously stupid _again. _Of course she's not ashamed of what she's done. Shame has nothing to do with her cold shoulder. Once again, she's trying to distance herself so that when she comes face to face with the opportunity to thrust one of her knives into his back, there's not a single moment of hesitation.

He understands better than anybody else the inner conflict she's suffering from, but in the end it's pretty simple. She's decided she can kill him. He knows he can't kill her.

Deep down, he knows he can't expect Clove to deny fifteen years of training and conditioning, but he's hurt despite knowing better. Damn it, he wants her to rebel with him, to promise to kill every pathetic tribute, to carve them up until their blood pumps hot and red onto the arena floor, but stay her hand when it comes to him. The roll he's eating turns to ash in his mouth and Cato swallows hard. He knows better. Clove will do what's expected of her. After all, unlike him, she came into this with her eyes wide open.

"I'm assuming that you'll want to be coached together," Enobaria states matter-of-factly.

It makes sense. They've been fighting in front of each other for three years, so it's not as if either of them has skills to hide, but something breaks inside of him at Enobaria's assumption. There's every reason in the world to stay Clove's partner. She's skilled and deadly and he knows her fighting style in his sleep, but he's past logic and into another territory entirely.

"No," he snaps out. "We're not being coached together."

_That_ gets her attention.

Her eyes snap to his, and for the first time this morning there's something resembling genuine emotion in them. If she looks betrayed then so be it, Cato thinks with a cruel relish, it's her damn turn.

"Cato," Enobara states delicately, "I think you might want to re-think your decision. Clove would be a great asset in the arena."

She'll also be the death of him-but that's one of the things that everyone _thinks _but doesn't say, so he stays silent.

"If Cato wishes to be trained separately, I have no objection," Clove says, as if he hasn't just broken years and years of precedent with his demand.

"What Cato _wishes _is to be an ass," Brutus sneers, and Cato flexes his hand under the table, dreaming about rearranging the trainer's blunt features while Clove carves patterns into his skin with one of her delicate, deadly little knives. He has to remind himself yet again that they won't be partnering up for any mayhem and destruction before his fantasy gets away from him. And they definitely won't be doing it with Brutus as a victim.

"Cato, we need to talk," Enobaria states with finality and he can tell from the twist of her upper lip that she is very pissed at him. He supposes he deserves it, for throwing a wrench into plans that have always made sense before, but he can't fucking bring himself to care.

He follows Enobaria out into the hallway and she shuts the door behind him before baring her teeth at him, a scare tactic that she hasn't used since he was six years old and still learning how to hold a spear correctly.

"Would you care to explain what the fuck your problem is?" she hisses at him, and he can't tell her, can't even figure out how to begin, so he just shrugs.

She glares at him for a second, and he remembers watching her rip the throat out of one of her victims, but he's not afraid anymore. Maybe if Enobaria kills him right now out of frustration, then he won't have to face Clove holding the weapon that carves his heart out.

"You've lost your focus and even worse, your edge," she rages. "It's like you woke up a year ago and decided you didn't want this anymore."

"That's not fair," he objects angrily, "I've worked my ass off for you."

"And now you're going to throw it all away because you've developed _feelings_," Enobaria sneers, in almost the exact same tone that Clove used all those months ago. He realizes now where she learned _that _particular inflection.

Cato wants to tell her that they aren't just feelings, that they're so much larger than that, but then he stops for a moment to really truly consider what he's saying, and he realizes that Enobaria is right. They _are _only feelings.

"She shouldn't be here," he snarls, retreating to familiar ground he understands. "She's not ready."

"Don't change the subject," she snaps.

The last thing he wants to tell Enobaria is the truth. She's been his mentor and really, his hero, since he was five years old, but in the end, he finally confesses, because if anybody should know, it's Enobaria. "I can't kill Clove." He glances at the ground, at his feet. He knows just how disappointed in him Enobaria will be. She thought she raised a perfect little Victor-deadly as fuck with no annoying conscience to get in the way.

She shrugs, as if this isn't news. "So? That has nothing to do with being coached with her."

He gapes a bit at how easily she takes his revelation. "You aren't angry," he states.

Enobaria throws her hands up in frustration. "You've been mooning after her for years. Did you really think I didn't know?"

He shrugs. "I guess I didn't even realize myself until recently, and now. . ._now. . ._"

"Just because you won't kill her doesn't mean you can't win, Cato," Enobaria says and when it comes out of her mouth, she makes it sound like the most reasonable thing on earth. For a second, he remembers all those years of dreams and how in a single moment, she fucking annihilated them, and then he comes to his senses. He doesn't want to win the Hunger Games if it means that Clove is dead.

"I don't understand."

"Lots of things can happen in the arena. What are the chances that the last two tributes will be you and Clove?" Enobaria shrugs. "Maybe a bit higher because of your skills and your training, but the thing you haven't realized about the arena and the Games is that there's a certain amount of luck involved. You don't just win because you're the best. You win because things fall your way."

Cato thinks through what she's saying. It makes sound sense. There's been lots of years where the Victor wasn't necessarily the most skilled or the most cunning or the most deadly, but instead, was just the last tribute who wasn't cut into a million pieces. "What if I said I wanted to be there to make sure things go her way?"

"Then I'd tell you that you'd sure as fuck better be coached with her, because if you're separated in the arena, protecting her went from hard to impossible."

He knows when he's been outsmarted, beaten at his own game. "Fine," he grinds out. "We'll be trained together. Happy now?"

Enobaria smiles, which Cato realizes isn't all that different from when she bares her teeth. She opens the door back into the dining room and he follows behind.

Clove glances up, completely unconcerned. That mask of hers is getting really fucking old, Cato thinks. He knows she cares, though she's buried it so deeply she may never be able to find it.

"We'll train together," he announces, but doesn't explain himself. She doesn't deserve to know how he feels, and the next time she comes sneaking into his bedroom, she'll wish she stayed away because he'll call her on all the bullshit.

* * *

Brutus suggests that while they wait for the train to arrive in the Capitol, the four of them reassess the other tributes by viewing the video footage of their reapings. This will be Cato's third viewing. He watched once the first night, as required by Panem law, and the second after dinner, while he was in his room, avoiding Clove. He'd made it a little game the second time around-which tributes could he kill that aren't Clove.

In the end, it's a pretty shitty game, because the answer turns out to be every single one of them.

The screen lowers in the media room as Clove and Enobaria settle in on the sofa, and Brutus stays standing by the doorway. Cato picks a chair that's on the other side of the room from Clove. It's maybe too late to distance himself, but he doesn't need to constantly advertise how much he wants her.

The anthem plays over Caesar Flickerman's effusive introduction. District 1 is first, and he watches stoically as a tall boy volunteers as the first tribute. With the exception of Clove, Cato supposes he should be most worried about District 1's tributes. After all, they are typically Careers, and this one looks like a semi-worthy opponent.

"Marvel," Enobaria observes. "Clearly trained as a Career."

"He doesn't look strong enough to be a Career," Brutus argues. "You'd think they would have beefed him up a little."

"Maybe it's not their style in District 1," Enobaria snaps back.

"Maybe it's because he's so tall," Cato adds. "He's got at least a few inches on me." And he's not exactly small.

"But you've got at least 50 pounds of muscle on him," Clove speaks up.

Logically, Cato knows she means what she said factually, but Cato has never once heard Clove admit that she's actually noticed his body. Unfortunately, the first time she does this, they're not alone and they're definitely not naked. Even more unfortunately, she does it right in front of Enobaria, who gives him a terrifying little smirk.

Enobaria notwithstanding, he feels good. Better than good. Maybe she's been watching him more than he realized-after all, he's spent the last ten years crafting and sculpting his body until it's the perfect weapon. He can snap someone's head with just a twist of his arms, and if there's any hand-to-hand combat without weapons, he can't imagine that any tribute could best him. But right now, all he cares about is that she's noticed, and despite the other people in the room, he has to shift a decorative pillow as unobtrusively as possible over his lap to hide his growing erection.

"Right," Brutus says testily. "Moving on. The girl." He points to the screen, which hasn't paused for their discussion, and Cato vaguely remembers the female District 1 tribute from his previous viewings.

Glimmer is undeniably pretty, with a flirty, feline smile, and a body that could go on for days. And she knows it, playing up her looks with a tighter-than-necessary Reaping Day dress. As he watches her hang all over Marvel on the stage, Cato wonders if maybe she isn't more deadly than her counterpart.

"Obvious what angle she's going for," Enobaria sneers.

"An obvious angle maybe, but an effective one," Cato answers honestly. "She's gorgeous."

He's caught up in the discussion of the tributes, and doesn't even realize his blunder.

"She is," Brutus agrees. "But I bet you she's got a skill all tucked away, nice and tidy. She'll be just as deadly as Marvel."

"Or more deadly," Enobaria points out. "The stupid blond routine is an old one, but it works. She might be the new Johanna Mason."

"Never," Clove says quietly but with a deadly ferocity. She practically spits the word out, and Cato glances over, only to be shocked to silence by the expression on her face. In the last three years, he's seen every terrifying face she has in her arsenal, but none compare to this one. She's fingering one of her knives-Brutus tried to confiscate them, but ended up with one a centimeter from his eye-and Cato knows without a word from her lips that Clove is thinking only of desecrating the beauty of Glimmer. Slowly. Painfully.

Cato isn't sure if it's because Clove hates the idea of a woman pretending to be weak, or if she's jealous that he thought Glimmer was pretty.

The broadcast moves to District 2 and he watches himself volunteer. As he thought before, Cato can't deny that he looks fearsome and confident, but this time, he sees his expression of certainty falter for a split second when Clove's ferocious scream rings out over the proceedings.

It might not be obvious enough for any other tribute to identify, but suddenly he is worried. The last thing he wants is some Capitol psychologist asshole to watch this video and realize what Clove means to him.

He wonders briefly if she noticed it, because she so rarely seems to miss any salient detail with that intense gaze of hers, but even if she sees it, it doesn't matter. She already knows what he feels-he's practically prostrated himself at her feet, and the best she can manage is a little physical lust. Cato wants to be disgusted by her coldness, but all he feels is an empty ache when he glances over at her closed-off face.

The image in front of them moves onto District 3. The boy is young, and scared. Ripe pickings. The girl's voice shakes. Even riper pickings.

District 4.

There hasn't been a great Victor from District 4 since Finnick Odair, and based on this year's crop, that state of affairs will continue. Brutus suggests the pack team up with 4 if only for the strength of numbers, especially at the Cornucopia bloodbath that traditionally begins the Games.

The middle Districts, as Enobaria calls them, traditionally supply the majority of the victims for the Games. This year doesn't appear to be any exception, as weakling after weakling steps across their respective stages. There only two Reapings after District 4 that draw any attention from either Enobaria or Brutus.

When he first saw Thresh, the male tribute for District 11, step onto his stage, powerful and taciturn, he felt the challenge of him in his bones. Finally, a tribute worth fighting that wasn't a sniveling boy or a whey-faced girl. Now, Enobaria and Brutus debate Thresh's obvious strength and question what abilities he might actually have, coming from a District as remote and deprived as 11.

Cato knows he doesn't have any abilities. Thresh is pretty much just strong. Maybe even stronger than him. And, Cato can see the desperation as it flashes across his face. In the other Districts, the ones who don't have Career training, being chosen for the Hunger Games is usually a certain death sentence and everyone avoids it if they can. Being chosen at 18, after avoiding it for six years, is pretty nasty luck, but if you're built like Thresh is, there's the tiniest sliver of an advantage. The tiniest bit of hope.

Cato can see that hope blossom in Thresh's eyes, and feeding it is desperation. Cato concludes, without listening to a word of what Enobaria and Brutus are saying, that Thresh is extraordinarily dangerous.

"He's got nothing to lose, and everything to gain," Brutus argues with Enobaria. "If he dies, then so what." Brutus' unspoken words hang in the air. It doesn't matter if Thresh dies, because essentially, he's already dead.

If that statement is true of Thresh of District 11, then it's practically embodied by District 12. There's only one Victor currently alive from that particular District, and from his drunken, pathetic performance on the stage, it's clear that that win was more out of luck than any skill that Haymitch Abernethy might have once possessed.

Cato can't help but roll his eyes as Abernethy falls and nearly takes the District 12 escort right along with him. "He was smart, once," Brutus speaks up. "It's a sad state that Haymitch has fallen to."

"A state of his own doing," Enobaria grunts.

They all watch as there's a volunteer for the first time in District 12. The girl that volunteers for her sister is lean and lanky, probably from being ill-fed her entire life, but there is a fire and a life in her eyes-a determination even stronger than Thresh's-that gives Cato a second of hesitation. Katniss, the District 12 tribute, will not go down without a fight.

Cato glances over at Clove, and finds her equally absorbed in the girl from District 12. There is a hard, steely backbone to her, and he isn't surprised that she's caught Clove's interest. She understands things like herself, and naturally, she would gravitate to Katniss' strength, if only to decimate it and claim it for her own.

The male tribute is unsurprisingly not usurped by a volunteer. The shorter, stockier boy climbs on the stage, eyes wary and darting in the crowd, as if he too is hoping that someone will give their life for his.

Cato thinks he probably wouldn't have caught it-Enobaria and Brutus have already turned away to plan, and Clove is absorbed with the keen edge of her blade reflected in the artificial light of the train car-but he saw a similar expression on his own face tonight, and so he recognizes it. Like knows like. As Cato watches, the other District 12 tribute glances over at the girl, and there is longing and fear and hopelessness there.

For a moment, though he has never met Peeta Mellark from District 12,, Cato feels something like kinship. Both he and Peeta are at the Games with someone who never should have accompanied them.

There will be no eternal glory for Peeta. And none for Cato. There is only confusion and disbelief and finally, rage. Rage at fate and at circumstances out of their control.

Cato can barely bring himself to think it, but a good portion of that stowed away rage is at the Capitol. After all, he thinks, it is their fault they are in this situation at all.

* * *

After more than twenty-four hours in motion, the train finally stops moving after it pulls into the Capitol station. Enobaria and Brutus hover in the background as Mason throws open the sliding door to the station and even though Cato is behind him, standing with Clove, the roar of applause is deafening.

As the sound of the crowd fills the narrow hallway, Cato can feel Clove stop next to him, and when he glances over, she's shrunken into her own skin.

"What's wrong?" he hisses just loudly enough that she'll hear him over the crowd.

She shakes her head with one emphatic movement, and the next moment her mask is back in place, deadly confidence replacing the fear.

He wants to tell her that it's okay to be afraid, that he knows it's not cool or noble to be terrified, but that you would have to be stupid to really enjoy being a part of all this. He's never really realized it before but they are all just some cogs in the great Capitol machine, brought here to give these bloodsuckers some entertainment to distract them from their empty, meaningless lives.

All of this floods his head, and Cato's never wanted anything more than to be able to turn her to her and say it all, say that he wishes he'd never come.

_You are mine. I am yours._

But the words stick in his throat just long enough, and then they're stepping onto the pavement of the train station, and Clove is smiling cockily, oozing brazen confidence.

He's only half a second behind her, because he understands implicitly what she is doing, and what he needs to do as well. Being from District 2 and being Careers, they are going to be the favorites. Their scores will reflect this, but for right now, they don't have their weapons or their skills or the committee's scores to brand them the frontrunners. All they have is their guts and the perfect confident mask that says to everyone watching: "I am skilled. I am deadly. And I will win."

But Cato knows his mask is not as good as hers. It might have been once. It could have been, if Gaia was the girl standing next to him.

Mason hurries quickly them, but not too quickly, from the station. Cato knows their escort wants the crowd to get a good look at the two of them before they are refined and enhanced by the Capitol stylists. Tonight, when they make their appearance in the chariot, the rough edges won't exist anymore, and the Capitol will only see their blinding perfection, but as Mason very well knows, an ever can't exist without a before.


End file.
